


Dying on the Street

by Linguam



Series: Speed, Surprise, and Violence of Action [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Casualties of War, Exhaustion, Gen, Medic Aramis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguam/pseuds/Linguam
Summary: It won’t stop, Aramis knows. Again, it’s with a certainty born out of nothing but a soldier’s instinct.


  And he’s right, it doesn’t stop.


  For days, it doesn’t stop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that piece I mentioned in my author notes in Die Spitze that was giving me so much grief? I finally managed to beat it (mostly) into submission. It's comprised of three chapters, which will be posted daily (i.e. last one'll be up this Sunday).
> 
> **Warnings** for gore and other pleasantries. There's an act of war. There are casualties. Aramis is working clean-up. Needless to say, it ain't pretty.
> 
> Proceed with caution. This is not a happy fic.

The newscaster has hardly reached the end of the announcement when Mathieu pops his head inside their tent and informs them that the Captain has called to an emergency meeting.

They make their way with haste, fellow musketeers flanking them – all of them guided by some intuitive sense of foreboding.

It doesn’t take long before the entire tent is filled with operatives and Treville, voice grave and expression unnaturally hard, even by his standards, begins.

He keeps it concise and to the point, as is his signum, but still, the picture he paints is one of horror and destruction. When he draws a parallel to the mission in Hungary last year, they know it’s going to be bad.

They set to work immediately, organizing work stations, assembling supplies. Still, by the time the humming of motors can be heard, they are not even close to ready.

Silent whimpers and beseeching moans accompany the first Litter that draws up outside their camp, a second one just about visible in the horizon.

It won’t stop, Aramis knows. Again, it’s with a certainty born out of nothing but a soldier’s instinct.

And he’s right, it doesn’t stop.

For days, it doesn’t stop.

[...]

From the moment the first FLA arrives, it’s chaos. Organized chaos, yes, but chaos nonetheless. Aramis doesn’t see much of the others, doesn’t have much time to think about them at all among the flurry of victims that arrive.

The first one is a man with his head covered in bloody bindings, sobbing uncontrollably and calling out for someone named Hannah. When Aramis removes the bandages, a mushy white goo greets him where the man’s left eye should be, the edges of the hole already red with infection.

A young woman, presumably Hannah, accompanies him on another stretcher, her body so severely burned that, in some parts, they catch glimpses of bone. The odor of singed flesh etches itself into the tent fabrics and Aramis tries to sooth her when she cries out in pain, her voice paper thin and raspy from smoke inhalation, but it’s like she doesn’t even hear him.

[...]

Lemay gets called away to the actual site already after a few hours, and Aramis is left in charge of their tent. He stops in his ministrations long enough to start to protest – he isn’t particularly accustomed to this field of medicine, and he definitely doesn’t have _clearance_ to deal with something of this proportion – but then another stretcher comes through the drapes and whatever he’d been about to say dies in his throat at the sight of a young boy with third degree burns covering his face and hands.

He doesn’t even notice when Lemay disappears and, after that, there isn’t much he can do other than continue working.

[...]

An old man comes in with his chest shredded by shrapnel; the flesh hangs in torn pieces and there’s so much damage that, for a brief moment, Aramis doesn’t know where to start, and even less how he can still be alive.

He screams when Aramis sets to work, obscenities switching to pleading switching back to obscenities, a harsh, garbled cry that joins the wet sound of metal being dragged from flesh in a sickening kind of music. His entire front is slick with blood and sweat, and Aramis repeatedly wipes his hands on his scrubs to keep from dropping the utensils, shouts for more cloths. Even so, he performs most of his work blind, unable to see past the sea of red.

[...]

He saws a woman’s leg off, because it’s in such a state of decompose that it’s beyond saving. Although they give her anesthetics, she fights them, and her screams keep ringing in Aramis’ head for hours after she finally loses the fight against consciousness.

[...]

He knows how this works.

Sees it for the cold and cruel and heartless reality that it is. Is not a stranger to the world of politics.

These people were never expected to survive. But it was impossible – _inhumane, political suicide_ – to leave them in the ruins. So they are sent here, where both personnel and supplies are lacking, the medics on sight signing their death warrant long before they even arrive at camp.

It would take a miracle to save them. He knows this.

Still, every loss of life, every final breath, widens the hole in Aramis’ heart.

[...]

He’s vaguely aware that day turns to night and then to day again. D’Artagnan arrives more than a few times, brown eyes that are usually alight with laughter now haunted, bearing supplies as well as word. Although they talk, the only thing that sticks to Aramis’ mind is that there are still many more transports to come.

[...]

A young girl is wheeled in – she can’t be more than ten – with an oozing hole where her left arm should be. Aramis is about to ask the woman who carries the front part of the stretcher about it, when another EMT rushes in with the extremity wrapped in cloths so bloody they’ve turned a nauseating brown, already in the early stages of decay.

He stands over her small body, acutely aware of each laborious breath. The bone in her shoulder is glinting naked and hard, and there’s nothing he can do other than clean it, remove the pieces of debris stuck inside, and bandage it to the best of his abilities, all the while knowing that it won’t be enough.

It seems like forever and only minutes when her body finally gives in to her injuries and Aramis adds her, chest aching, to the pile of people he hasn’t been able to save.

[...]

At some time during the day – or maybe it is night – Constance appears in his tent, drags him aside and presses a water bottle and a banana into his hands. He dutifully consumes them under her watchful gaze, tastes nothing but smoke and rotten flesh, his own eyes never leaving his patients.

[...]

There is no time to fully reflect on the horrors he witnesses.

As soon as he finishes one surgery, another body is laid before him. He loses track of time in the chaos of broken and severed limbs, agonized cries, and bodies weeping blood. Dark eyes damp with tears implore him to sooth, to relieve their pain, to _please,_ just _save them._

Most of the times, he finds that he cannot.

He wades in their pain, breathes their despair, tastes their blood on his tongue. Their lamentation is the only existing sound, a continuously swelling crescendo so intense it vibrates through every nerve, synapse, and axon.

A pandemonium of soundless voices.

A choir of the dying.

[...]

Porthos comes, carrying a young man who sports more holes than a Swiss cheese, and one glance is enough to tell Aramis that his fate is in God’s hands. Still, he works on him for an hour before the man ultimately gives in to his injuries.

Porthos lingers, eyes anywhere except on the surgical table that Aramis absently thinks was white, at some point.

Aramis forces himself to straighten – it’s an herculean effort, if ever there was one – and raises a questioning eyebrow.

For some reason, that only makes Porthos grimace.

“Aramis…” he starts, but then someone calls from the outside and Aramis gives him a small smile.

Porthos doesn’t look pleased, but Aramis doesn’t have time to contemplate it for long before another stretcher comes through the drapes.

They still got work to do.

[...]

At one point, he belatedly wonders about the son of the woman whose leg he had to cut off.

She’s still clinging on to life, with a desperation born out of the primal instinct to protect one’s child, but Aramis isn’t holding out much hope; she’s lost too much blood, infection has set in, and they don’t have enough medicine or the proper equipment to keep it in check. The only thing that she holds onto is the hope of seeing her son again, but no one matching his description – _scrawny,_ she’d whispered, eyes fixating on Aramis with eerie intensity out of a face as white as the sheets she lay on, _dark hair, cobalt blue eyes. His name’s Roman. Please…_ – had arrived at the camp; Aramis sent someone to the other tents every time he heard another Litter draw up but they always came back emptyhanded, a terse headshake in the negative.

He honestly doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

[...]

Athos makes an appearance, asking him if he needs anything, and Aramis finds he has the inappropriate urge to laugh. He needs more of everything: medical personnel, supplies, equipment, and room for more sick beds. He only voices the last one, because he knows that Athos can’t help him with the rest; even if they sent for more medication and staff, most of the patients will be dead before it arrived.

Most of them don’t last longer than half a day, anyway.

[...]

He gradually shuts himself down, can’t allow himself to focus on anything other than the job at hand. 

His feelings of injustice won’t help them, nor will his words of comfort.

He works and he prays, and that’s all he can do.

He’s been a soldier for a long time.

God knows he’s seen worse.

[...]

By the time d’Artagnan comes with an order from their First Lieutenant that he needs to see him, Aramis hardly remembers which country they’re in anymore.

Some deep-rooted instinct has him opening his mouth to protest, but then Constance nudges him forward, ill-concealed worry on her face and he frowns, because why would Constance be worried?

He finds himself outside of the tent without really knowing how, and he follows their newest team member on autopilot. The sky is marine colored velvet, the lingering smell of Serge’s beef stew in the air. It’s preferable to the odor of the tent, but still it makes Aramis’ stomach roll.

When they enter their de facto leader’s tent, Aramis isn’t exactly surprised to see Porthos there, too.

Still, he somehow finds the energy to raise an eyebrow.

“Are we having an intervention?” he asks. His voice is hoarse, and he clears it.

Athos is watching him with critical eyes, sitting on a foldable chair by his table.

“Of sorts,” he replies, eventually. “We thought you could benefit from a break.”

“The walk to your tent has been most refreshing,” Aramis says, not really bothering to infuse his words with humor. He is too weary for it. “However, if there was nothing else, I should get back…”

Porthos snorts from where he stands, leaning against Athos’ desk.

“You remember last time you ate?”

Aramis opens his mouth to answer – because what kind of ridiculous question is that, _of course_ he does – and closes it with a frown when he realizes that he has no idea.

Porthos gives him a look that clearly communicates his displeasure and, taking him by the elbow, the big man leads him to the table Athos’s sitting at and pushes him down, gentle but firm. Next thing Aramis knows, a cup of water appears in his hands.

Athos takes a sip of his own drink and leans back, the picture of calm.

“That’s settled, then. You will eat and then get at least five consecutive hours of sleep before returning to your duties.”

Aramis almost chokes on his water.

“What?” he splutters. “Athos, I’m the most qualified in my tent and there are still FLAs rolling in, I can’t just _leave–_ ”

“I’m sure they can manage without you for a few hours,” Athos interrupts, voice droll but with the unmistakable edge of command to it. “I have already spoken to the head nurse and, incidentally, she agrees.”

Aramis’ eyes narrow.

“I don’t suppose I have a say in this?”

Athos gives a minute shrug, his eyes speaking volumes even though no words are forthcoming.

Aramis knows that his friends are doing this out of some misplaced concern for him, but still he can’t help but bristle.

“I’m not a child, Athos,” he grumbles – decidedly _not_ sounding petulant.

“Of course not,” Athos agrees, completely unfazed. “Now eat, or I’ll have Porthos force-feed you.”

D’Artagnan snickers from where he’s taken up residence on the bed, and Porthos gives a challenging grin, encouraging him to try his luck; however, Aramis’ pride still hasn’t recovered from last time: with both of his arms in slings – a combination of a bust gone wrong and his own stupid luck – he’d had no other option than to let the others help him with every mundane thing, including taking care of his basic needs. It’s not something he cares to repeat _ever_ again, so he just glares at them, gives in, and sullenly takes the spoon. All feelings of annoyance, however, disappear when he takes the first bite and suddenly realizes just how hungry he is.

He eats in silence, the easy conversation of his friends a soothing background blur. None of them ask any questions, about his well-being, about the people he has treated – probably because they already know the answer to both: are well aware of how many lives have perished and how he is dealing – that is, not at all. Either way, he is grateful for the reprieve.

By the time he’s finished with his plate, the only thing that prevents him from falling forward is his pride and sheer stubbornness.

He isn’t sure he actually _doesn’t_ fall forward, because suddenly he’s hauled to his feet by familiar hands, and then Porthos is steering him towards Athos’, suspiciously d’Artagnan-empty bed.

Somehow, there’s enough energy left in him to jerk to a halt.

“I will make it an order if I have to,” Athos says from behind him, before he can even think to make his mouth work properly. “Just lie down, Aramis.”

He wants to protest – really, this isn’t necessary at all, he doesn’t need to be coddled, and he definitely doesn’t have time for this; he can already hear the next Litter pulling up and he knows what it will contain and he can’t _be_ here – but his head is a thick and heavy thing on his shoulders, and his eyes throb and itch and feel like they’ve been scrubbed _raw_ with sandpaper.

Porthos silently eases him down on the cool sheets and Aramis, because he is weak and selfish and so very heavy, lets him. When his head connects with the softness of the pillow, he can’t help the small sigh that escapes him. If he had the energy, he would sob in relief, because this must be what heaven feels like.

He narrows his eyes at the bleary images of his friends, and mumbles, “Wake me in five hours.”

He’s asleep before he can hear the answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter but more action-packed chapter this time around.

In hindsight, Aramis will think that this is his punishment for snapping at Constance when he knows she was only trying to help when she suggested he’d take a break; he will think that he should have paid more attention to the woman’s wounds when, upon first inspection, none of them seemed overly severe, despite the alarming amount of blood covering her front; he will think that he should have been suspicious when all he could make out of her feverish ramblings was, _‘Fire shall cleanse the sins from their souls.’_

He doesn’t realize any of that, however, until Pascal pulls apart the outer layers of her coat, and he sees what lies underneath.

Everybody around the table freezes.

“Shit,” one of the stand-in nurses, a Sergeant Christine DuGall, mutters, instinctively taking a step back. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is?”

Judging by the apprehension coloring her voice, there is no need to respond.

“What kind of bomb is it?” Pascal asks, voice shaking slightly despite his best efforts. He’s new to the regiment, and while showing promise – as well as exceptional skill with any kind of tracking – this is as close to the real horrors of war he’s ever gotten. 

“Not sure,” Aramis mumbles, squinting as he leans closer and studies the device. For some reason, the components keep blurring together, forcing him to blink repeatedly. “But we’re not staying to find out.” He clears his throat. “Everyone out; take as many patients with you as possible but do _not_ come back in here. The children and the least wounded take priority. Allard, find the EOD guys, and inform Claudine that her tent will soon become very crowded. DuGall, notify the Captain and start setting up a radius, preferably at least sixty feet. Pascal, find me some pen and paper.”

Everyone is moving long before he’s done issuing the orders.

Aramis’ own eyes are stinging when they take in the woman lying on the surgical table, or, more accurately, the bomb attached to her midsection. Instinct screams at him to move, to get out, but he also knows that they need to be able to give as detailed a description as possible of what they are dealing with.

Pen and paper soon find their way into his hands and he starts on a basic sketch of what the device looks like, the sound of charcoal upon fine sheet like a cat pushing its claws into his brain matter.

They could probably move her, he thinks absently. The ride from the bomb site to their camp was hardly the smoothest, and she’s sure to have been jostled during the journey. Moving her again, out of the tent, probably wouldn’t set anything off.

The issue is that one word: probably.

He gives the sketch to Pascal and tells him to follow Allard and hand it over to the EOD. Might be it tells them something that can move things along.

“Constance,” he says, knows she’s near without having to turn and look. “Go. Get the others.”

He can feel her hesitation like something tangible.

“Aramis…”

“Tell Porthos it appears to be a C-4 construction of some kind,” he says, eyes still studying the device. “No visible trigger, but there doesn’t appear to be any timer either…”

“You’re taking your own advice and getting out of here too, right?” she asks, in a voice that clearly states she harbors no great hopes of such. “Or is that to ask for too much common sense on your part?”

He flashes her a quick grin.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he promises.

Constance hums, clearly not convinced, and Aramis looks up at her fully, features smoothing into sympathy. He’s hardly the only one who’s been working his ass off since all of this started. But despite the overall weariness, her eyes are sharp as they meet his: alert, assessing.

He raises an eyebrow at her, inquiring, amused, and, with an annoyed little breath, she finally turns and leaves.

Aramis relaxes minutely, and returns his attention to the bomb with a sigh.

Needless to say, things just got a whole lot more complicated.

###### 

He doesn’t turn when the tent drapes slide open, doesn’t lift his gaze from where he stands frowning at the empty, untouched cot. There’s really no need, because Porthos knows who it is and he exhales heavily, allows some of the tension to leave him even though it’s not the brother he’d prefer.

There’s a long-suffering sigh.

“I don’t think glaring will make him any more inclined to magically appear,” Athos says from the entrance.

The comment only has Porthos scowling harder.

“Have you seen him?”

“Not since our improvised intervention three nights ago.”

Porthos growls in annoyance, remembers the distant, beyond weary look in their friend’s eyes all too well.

“It’s been over a week of this, Athos. At the rate he’s goin’, he’ll be needin’ one of ‘em sick beds for himself soon.”

Athos sighs and Porthos turns. The First Lieutenant probably looks bored to anyone outside of their closely knit group, but Porthos can see the frustration beneath the carefully crafted mask of indifference clear enough.

“If I believed ordering him would do any good, I would,” Athos says, and Porthos knows this, knows Athos feels guilty about Aramis being in this position, although there’s really nothing any of them can do about it. “But you know as well as I that there is no dissuading him when he gets like this.”

Porthos sighs.

“Woulda preferred it if we didn’t have to pick ‘im up every time ‘cause he drives himself into the ground.”

They always will, of course, and they both know it. Porthos just wished – and naively so, if experience was anything to go by – that it didn’t have to come to that every goddamn time.

Athos’ mouth twitches in a sarcastic half-smirk.

“Have you ever known Aramis to do anything half-hearted?”

Porthos huffs a tired laugh and drags a hand down his face, hoping that it will work to restore some of his waning energy; the last few days have been trying for all of them.

“Guess not.”

He’s about to ask for the reason behind Athos’ appearance when Constance all but hurls herself inside the tent, eyes wide and panting like she’s just run a marathon.  
Before either one of them have the chance to ask her what’s going on, she splutters, “Aramis has a bomb.”

The two exchange glances, Porthos’ confusion mirrored in his team leader’s eyes.

“Aramis has a bomb…?” Athos repeats slowly.

“What? Yes! Isn’t that what I just…”

She stops, stares at their incredulous looks, and then glares at them like they are the dumbest fucks she’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

“Well obviously not like _that,_ you idiots: in the _tent._ _God,_ you’d think that… There was a bomb strapped around one of the victims-- though I suppose she wasn’t much of a victim now, was she?”

Athos’ jaw tenses minutely, the only visible sign of a reaction.

“Is it activated?”

“We don’t know. There was no visible timer, but…”

“Did you find a trigger?”

Constance shakes her head in the negative and Athos drags a hand down his face, cursing softly.

“They are evacuating the tent?”

Constance just gives him a _well-duh_ look.

“What kind of bomb is it?” Porthos asks, mind racing with questions, the most prominent one being: _how much time do they have?_

Constance throws her arms out in frustration.

“How on Earth should I know! Do you see an EOD certificate somewhere on my list of merits? As far as I know defusing bombs has never been a part of the course content in becoming a combat nurse!”

Porthos hold his hands up in a conciliatory gesture.

“Constance…”

She waves her hand at him.

“Yes, yes, I know. Sorry. Aramis said it was probably made of C-4. There was wiring. That’s all I know. The EOD boys have been notified.”

“And Aramis?” Athos asks, the exasperated little sigh surrounding the sniper’s name indicating that he has a pretty good idea of the answer.

Constance’s face changes into the expression she always gets when one of them has, as Athos had once put it, ‘had their propensity towards self-sacrifice override their sense of self-preservation.’

Porthos just thinks she looks terrifyingly pissed.

“Knowing him, the idiot’s probably still in the there.”

Athos swears.

They move out of the tent and start towards the medical area, the familiar rush of adrenaline-mixed terror flooding through Porthos’ veins.

They pass d’Artagnan on their way; the young man stands talking to an EMT but glances their way as they come near. The tension must show on their faces because he immediately excuses himself and jogs over to them. Porthos distantly hears him ask what’s going on and Athos giving a brief explanation of the situation, followed by an order to _‘Stay put,’_ but he himself never stops.

As he draws closer to the med. area, Athos hot on his heels, he’s vaguely aware of people running around, shouting orders, and creating a wide berth around one of the tents. He and Athos share a brief look before the latter turns and moves toward Treville, who stands hollering instructions a few yards away.

That’s when he sees him, running so fast he almost stumbles on the flat ground, not away from the tent – _because that’s what any sensible fucking human being would do_ – but _towards_ it.

Porthos swears, quickens his pace.

“Aramis!” he bellows. “You blockheaded fool, get ba--”

The shockwave is powerful enough to knock Porthos off his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He he he...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe I almost forgot to post this chapter tonight? Shame on me, lol, but in my defense, I had been sitting with the most annoying lit. assignment for five hours straight and after that... well, contrary to what you might think, my brain had somehow avoided turning into mush, so I continued studying, lol. Anywho, none of you care about this, so let's get on with what you're really here for!
> 
> Thank you all for your support!

Aramis isn’t sure what it is that eventually wakes him, but he comes to with a start, stark images of terror and bloodbath on his retina. He at once can’t seem to locate his limbs, and is still much more aware of them than he’d like to be.

“Well, look who finally deigns to grace us with his presence,” someone drawls nearby and Aramis blinks.

“Wha?” He croaks, and is immediately thrown into a bout of dry coughing. Chilled air scorches his throat, the spasm-like tensing and relaxing of muscles reverberating through his already pounding head.

He feels himself being shifted, a strong grip on his arms keeping him from falling over.

By the time his coughing fit has finally ended, the world is whirling in a nauseating dance that makes his stomach roll, even through closed eyes. He is only vaguely aware of the hand rubbing soothing circles across his back as he tries to regain his equilibrium – preferably with his head remaining attached to the rest of his aching body.

“Easy, ‘Mis. Easy,” Porthos’ voice murmurs from behind him, warm puffs of air against his ear.

Something hard and cold is put against his lips and Aramis flutters his eyes open to reveal the metal brim of a cup and the familiar, piercing blues of their 1st LT. His arm twitches with the intention of taking it, but he doesn’t seem able to remember how to properly lift it.

“Relax, Aramis,” Athos mumbles, and Aramis entertains the thought of objecting for one tenth of a second, before he goes boneless against Porthos’ solid frame.

He winces at the first swallow; it burns in his throat like antiseptic over an open wound, but then relief washes over him and he greedily empties the cup with a contented sigh.

Athos gives him a small, tight smile when he’s done.

“Good,” he mumbles softly, and although it isn’t exactly some great feat that he just achieved, Aramis feels ridiculously proud.

He swallows down the lingering thorns, tests his throat. Rasps out, “Happened?”

Athos puts the empty cup down beside the bed; Aramis absently realizes that, once again, they find themselves in the former SF soldier’s tent.

“What do you remember?”

Aramis’ brow knit together in thought and he closes his eyes. He remembers bodies, severed and bloody: hollow eyes staring at him, pleading, accusing: the smell of fresh cadavers and the night black of ravens’ wings against white…

He shivers.

“Aramis?”

He blinks his eyes open, banishing the images that he knows are partly from another time, another horrifying place.

“Bomb?” he croaks inquiringly, not actually remembering but instinctively recognizing it as the truth.

Athos nods grimly.

“It would seem one of the assumed victims was actually one of the culprits.”

Aramis considers this for a moment; an image of a woman slowly begins to form in his mind, and then the rest of it hits him like a feigned train, the scream of his name the last thing he remembers before the darkness…

“Porthos?” he breathes, wants to say more but his voice fails him.

“Fine and fit,” his friend reassures from behind him. A playful note creeps into his voice when he adds, “Wasn’t the one who decided to faint on us.”

Aramis huffs, but it turns into another coughing spell that leaves his entire body whimpering. The bed dips, and then Athos returns with another cup of water that he helps Aramis empty. It takes some time, and a few shallow exhales and inhales, but Aramis is eventually able to breathe without fearing another fit.

“There were people still in there.” It’s a statement, question, and an explanation all in one.

“Five patients,” Athos informs him quietly. “Including the culprit.”

Aramis sighs, sorrow adding to the already crushing exhaustion, and remains silent. Neither of his friends say a word. Porthos doesn’t start raging at him for being a reckless, self-sacrificing idiot, and Athos doesn’t admonish him for acting before thinking – again. It would change little to voice what is already an established, and at least in part accepted, truth among them.

For a while, silence hangs heavy in the air.

Then someone squeezes Aramis’ arm and he opens eyes he has no recollection of closing to see Athos studying him critically.

“How are you feeling?”

Aramis takes stock of his various aches: his body basically one ginormous bruise, coated in the overbearing heaviness distinctive to extreme fatigue.

“Like I’ve swallowed the Sahara… and been the play toy of a hurricane,” he eventually gets out. His throat is tickling, but he resolutely swallows it down. “I’ll be alright.”

Athos glances above his head at Porthos, and his expression gives Aramis pause.

“How long?” he asks cautiously.

It’s Porthos who answers, voice slightly wistful. “You’ve been out since yesterday.” He continues before Aramis has a chance to wrap his head around that fact. “Not that it’s surprisin’, considerin’ you’ve hardly slept for a week.”

Aramis opens his mouth, intent on contradicting his friend’s words – they did force him to sleep, did they not? – but stops when he realizes exactly what Porthos just said.

A week.

They’ve been going at it for a–

“It’s been a week?” he croaks, and Porthos hums unhappily.

“Eleven days, to be exact,” Athos supplies, and he too looks chagrined.

Aramis doesn’t know what to say to that. He thinks back, tries to remember, but it’s impossible to separate the days from one another in the ever-present bloodbath playing across his retina.

So instead, he starts trying to push his aching body up into a sitting position.

Porthos’ arms tense around him, and a hand presses down on his leg to stop his momentum.

“And where, exactly, do you think you’re going?” Athos asks, one eyebrow raised and tone that of a parent trying to reason with a very obstinate child.

Aramis frowns.

“Where do you think I’m going? Back to the _tents._ ”

Athos gives a thoughtful hum and nods, as if in agreement, but the hand on Aramis’ thigh doesn’t move.

“I see.”

Aramis rolls his eyes; despite the shards of agony it sends through his optic nerve and into the very core of his cerebrum.

“Then how about you two stop coddling me like a pair of overprotective mother bears?” he suggests wryly.

Now it’s Porthos’ turn to hum in thought.

“Yeah, y’see… Athos ‘n I discussed that and, well… Tha’s just not gonna happen.”

Aramis raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

“As a matter of fact,” Athos says, blue eyes suddenly dead serious on him, “it is. You have exhausted yourself to the point of illness and are most likely suffering from a concussion, if the headache clearly etched on your face is any indication, so either you rest for the remainder of the day and we _might_ allow you back to your station tomorrow--”

“ _Allow_ me--”

“--or you stay here until our departure,” Athos finishes. “Those are your options, because God knows we won’t let you out of our sight.”

Aramis sighs.

“Athos, while I appreciate the concern, I assure you it’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

Porthos snorts from behind him.

“You know I can _feel_ you tremblin’, so stop bein’ such a stubborn ass an’ just give yourself a break already.”

Aramis looks at Athos sitting across from him, piercing blue gaze equally as immovable as Porthos’ arms around his torso. They can all display various degrees of stubbornness, and while Aramis certainly possesses more than his share, and frequently draws on it, going up against both of his long-time brothers is a challenge even on his best day.

Which, needless to say, this is not.

He leans back with an apprehensive sigh.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in arguing?”

“Not unless you wish to summon Constance’s wrath upon you,” Athos says. His lips twitch in a wry smirk. “She was quite adamant that you are not to show your face in the infirmary anytime within the foreseeable future.”

“Think she said somethin’ about ‘chopping off his hair and using it as a snare to strangle him with’,” Porthos agrees, voice light with amusement.

Aramis winces, one hand automatically going up to tug at his curls. Though careless exploits could unarguably be considered a specialty of his, he is in no hurry to come head-to-head with the formidable rage of their sister-in-arms.

He clears his throat, coughs a few times into his shoulder. His chest aches, his head threatening to explode with every beat of his heart, but at least it’s bearable as opposed to the all-consuming agony that filled him when he first woke.

“Well then,” he says, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. “I guess I have no choice but to accept your demands.” He eyes both of his friends in turn. “Though I really am alright, you know.”

“Indeed,” Athos drawls. “People who are ‘alright’ frequently fall unconscious when knocked off their feet and onto _sand._ It’s a very disconcerting phenomenon.”

Aramis inclines his head, heat rising to his cheeks.

“I see your point.”

Porthos carefully moves from behind him and helps ease him down onto the bed and into a half sitting position. Every bruise protests the movement, but then the sheets feel like nothing short of bliss and Aramis tiredly closes his eyes.

“Wake me if you need me.”

He can practically hear Athos’ eyebrow climb up into his hairline.

“Why would we need you?”

Aramis’ lips twitch, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Silence descends, the pull of sleep like something physical, but before it can succeed in completely pulling him under, some almost forgotten memory stirs in Aramis’ mind.

His forehead creases.

Did someone call me a _blockheaded fool?_ he thinks groggily, opens his mouth to ask, but darkness overwhelms him before he can put the thought into words.

###### 

A Litter comes with two sisters in their early twenties, a middle-aged man, and an old woman, every one of them in various stages of closeness to Death’s door. Three of them die before the sun rises to announce the beginning of a new day, but one of the sisters will probably make it.

It’s reported to be the last transport they are to receive and yet, Aramis can’t muster any relief. It’s been three days since the explosion, and after having spent half a day and a night on enforced bedrest, he’s been glued to his work station in the medical tent, Constance watching his every move like a hawk – an overprotective, slightly pissed off mother hawk. He had apologized for his “idiotic and completely suicidal behavior” – her words – but it seemed she wasn’t quite ready to forgive him just yet.

He sighs and drags a hand down his face. Whatever energy he had regained during his brief respite has by now been thoroughly washed away. His head pounds, eyes stinging, and his entire body feels sore, but what nearly undoes him is the overwhelming fatigue weighing down on him like the world on Atlas’ shoulders.

He grabs the bottle offered to him by Porthos and takes not one swallow, but several. The brandy burns in his throat, collecting in the pit of his stomach like a liquid pile of glowing hot embers, chasing away the chill that courses through his veins despite the suffocating weather.

The four of them are sitting some distance from the main campsite; close enough to be available should the need arise, but sufficiently far away to have some privacy. With things finally starting to quieten, they can afford to fall back into their familiar rotation; which means actually sleeping, eating, and finally being able to draw breath.

It also means that there’s now nothing to prevent the last two weeks from bearing down on them full force, guilt following like an unwelcome but expected shadow.

Even with his eyes closed, Aramis can feel the gazes of his brothers, and that is what eventually has him lowering the bottle and passing it on to d’Artagnan.

He failed.

The words echo in his sore head, needling themselves into the folds of his brain with the ruthless precision of veracity. He might not be responsible for what happened, but that doesn’t make the words any less true.

He still failed to save them.

The thought and subsequent wave of self-loathing angers him, because what happened here really has nothing to do with him. It is not his life that has been permanently altered because of the delusional convictions of some madman. He should be grateful.

Still, fatigue and a concussion make for a poor defense against self-pity.

He doesn’t voice these thoughts out loud, because he knows what his brothers would say, can hear their platitudes alongside the sneering self-doubt, and it would offer little reassurance.

He thinks, belatedly, that he shouldn’t let it affect him like this. They are at war, after all, and this is hardly his first one. Bad things are bound to happen. Especially to those who deserve it least.

The thought does little to alleviate the melancholy that seems to have settled somewhere deep within his very bones, and he reaches for the bottle again, fingers closing around the by now lukewarm flagon, only to have a hand on his arm slow his progress. Scathing words drip on his tongue like poison, only to evaporate when he turns his head and meets Athos’ gaze, that patented steadiness as apparent as ever, even in the faint glow of their small fire. What has him relinquishing his hold on the bottle, though, is the grim yet honest understanding he can find in their First Lieutenant’s cerulean blues.

Anger deflates like a failed soufflé.

He gives a weary sigh.

Silence reigns between them, broken only by the odd movement or the chirp of crickets, and suddenly, after days filled with so much sound, it’s just too loud.

Aramis rises.

The change of altitude – combined with how he has neglected his body for the last two weeks and that, as a result, already has him feeling more than a little tipsy – momentarily dizzies him, but he somehow manages to stay upright.

Porthos makes an attempt to rise, as well, but Aramis stops him, placing a hand on the big man’s shoulder as he passes and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Soft browns regard him with open concern, and he gives a smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes but that is, at the same time, genuine.

He makes his way towards his destination, steps a bit unsteady.

Constance looks up when he arrives, a small, tired smile of sympathy in her eyes, before she lowers her head over her work again. It’s eerily quiet, in stark contrast to the ceaseless wailing of the last two weeks.

Aramis’ head throbs with the absence of sound.

Two thirds of the cots are empty. Only air and phantom contours where before there lay bodies. Proclaiming eternal rest for the Lord’s creations.

It’s… uncanny. How something so tangible as reality can suddenly be altered, erased.

The smell still lingers, of scorched flesh and despair, of blood and fear, but it isn’t as invasive as it was before. It doesn’t taint the air red, doesn’t carry the bitter tang of blood on every inhale.

Standing inside the tent’s opening, it isn’t relief, isn’t the long-awaited peace after a horrible storm that steals the breath from his lungs and makes him stagger.

No.

It’s the absence of all that should be that nearly drives Aramis to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not very satisfactory, is it? Yeah well, sorry about that, but as I said in the beginning, this is not a happy fic. And war, to put it frankly, sucks balls. So there'll be no relief, other than the fact that our boys all survived (mostly) unscathed.


End file.
